Page 10 of The Cheerleader

I could use another glass because my first semester at UConn this fall looms like a murky bog of unknowns and possibilities for giant mistakes.

But even more so, I see possibilities for great excitement.

Chapter Three

Bryan

Late August 1975, UConn, Storrs, CT

Shoving the bare necessities into my well-used UConn duffel, I pull it tight and zip it, then heft it over my shoulder. My father stands in the doorway of my bedroom, blocking my exit. I keep the duffel in place even though it bites into my sore shoulder. I should switch it to the other side, but I don’t move, waiting for him to say whatever he has to say.

“You didn’t finish your chores.”

“I did.”

“No. The extra hand quit early today. You finish his chores.”

“And tomorrow? Who will finish the chores?” I swallow down a spike of bile, knowing the answer and despising it, despising my choice to do nothing about it. But it’s an impossible choice: football versus my family’s farm.

“As of tomorrow, you’re leaving it all to your cousin Wally.”

I hold back a snort of derision. Wally is undersized even for a ten-year-old. My old man stands there stoic and determined. It would be better if he yelled. Then I could yell back. But we both know my little cousin Wally can’t handle the kind of chores the hired hand does—when he’s around. My old man’s going to have to hire someone new, and he resents me for it.

“Or you could finish the chores,” I say, lifting my chin and daring him to do something about my insolence.

He takes a step forward, and I steel my body, barely preventing a flinch.

“I’m leaving now. My ride⁠—”

“Your ride can wait,” he snarls, anger seething from him because he knows better than to strike now.

I stare him down because I don’t want to give in, don’t want to make Coach Hammer wait. He’s more than my ride, more than my football coach at Suffield Academy. He’s the man who helped get me a football scholarship at UConn. And my old man knows it.

“You can be late. It’s only a game. The chores won’t wait. The farm is more important than any damn game.”

His words cut because he’s right—or he would be right except this isn’t about a damn game. It’s about my life. He’s telling me farming is a more important life than anything else, including football or whatever I might do with a college degree.

But that’s because he doesn’t know about my promise to Caleb. And he never will. It’s killing me to spend all my time and energy, every minute I have that’s not school or football—my one escape—working on the family farm. Which is sick because when I was a kid, I loved it.

Now… he’s ruined it, made the farm a threat, a weapon he wields against me to punish me for Caleb’s death. I swipe my free hand through my hair.

I need to escape, not the farm, my old man. Even if that means leaving my mother and Wally behind. But I swear it’ll be temporary.

“I can’t miss my ride to campus.”

“Call Hammer and tell him to come later.” His words are matter-of-fact, but I don’t miss the snap in his eyes, the tightening in his jaw when he refers to Coach.

I don’t bother telling him that the UConn football program doesn’t work that way, that I’m expected to report to the field house for a team meeting at noon. He doesn’t care.

I glance at my watch, a silver-colored Timex the old man got me for high school graduation. He said it was so I could make sure I finished my chores on time.

If I do finish the chores quickly, I can just make it to the meeting if Coach drops me off at the field house with my stuff. I’ll have to hitch a ride to the apartment after the meeting and practice or carry my things back. Shit.

From experience, I know I’m not getting past my old man in the doorway without brute force. He’s daring me to shove him out of the way. Then all hell will break loose and Mom will⁠—

“You’ve already had three years of college.” He breaks the silence uncharacteristically. “I don’t see that you’ve got even one year’s worth of knowledge out of it. College can wait. Or maybe you should quit.”

We’ve had this argument before, and I’m not about to have a repeat. Not about to make Mom cry on the day I’m leaving, knowing I won’t be back until Thanksgiving. If then. Before I can tell my old man I’ll do the damn chores, Mom pushes him aside to come into my room.